It was inevitable that he would take her here, in the bounty of late summer sun, in the midst of a field, nothing but the glorious sky above them and the sweet-scented earth beneath them. But first, he wanted to watch her consume another bite-sized bit of chocolate and meringue heaven. For Boadicea did not sample a dessert in a ladylike fashion—of course she didn’t. Instead, she licked, moaned, and savored. She devoured.
And he wanted to devour her in turn.
“A tart for a tart?” she asked archly.
Bloody hell, she was not letting that one go, was she? It shamed him to think he had once been so dismissive of her, that he had believed her nothing more than a beautiful flirt with a wild streak. There was so much more to her, so many hidden depths he had only just begun to discover.
“You are not a tart, princess,” he said firmly. “And since, as the victor, I am entitled to your complete cooperation for the remainder of the day, I both insist you cease referring to my idiocy and eat another tart.”
A slow smile curved her lips, and he could not stymie the answering slide of heat in his veins. “I shall save referring to your idiocy for tomorrow.”
A laugh tore from him. “How generous. Now, eat the bloody tart before it melts all over my fingers and I am a sticky mess.”
“As you wish, husband, since I am at your mercy.” She obliged then, opening her lips to nibble lightly at the shell of the pastry. His cock twitched as he watched, as much from her words as from her actions. How was the sight of a woman taking a bite of dessert so erotic? He had not imagined he would ever find it so.
Then again, he had not imagined, even days ago, when he had been facing his impending nuptials, any of the maelstrom of sensations buffeting him now. He had dreaded their union, hated the notion of another marriage when the first one had ruined him, had imagined Boadicea unsuitable for him in every sense other than base physical attraction. And yet…
He felt lighter than he had in… Hell, in as long as he could recall. How incredible that it was owed to the woman seated opposite him with such elegant perfection, her purple riding habit contrasting her pale skin, the jaunty hat she had worn earlier removed to allow her fiery curls to glint in the sun.
His chest filled. His heart thumped. Never had he shared such a simple, pleasurable afternoon with Millicent, even before her madness. He could not help but notice the disparity between the two women. It was an irony that perhaps only he appreciated that neither one of his marriages had been his wish but fostered instead by varying forms of duty.
With Millicent, it had been that their families—her lineage older and more prestigious than the Marlow line—wished to align. The match had been well-received by all. His father had pressed, and Spencer had consented, and he had been young and so bloody naïve when he had welcomed his young and green bride to Boswell Manor. Spencer had been twenty-five, Millicent scarcely twenty. Within five years, both his father and Millicent had already been consigned to the grave.
“You are frowning,” Boadicea observed, trailing her fingertips in a whisper of a touch over his brows.
He swallowed, realizing that he had frozen, still holding out the remainder of the tart. He offered it to her for another bite, watching as her white teeth sank into the meringue center, her tongue licking a bit of chocolate from her lower lip. She missed a trace in the corner of her mouth, and without hesitation, he used his thumb to wipe it away, bringing it back to his waiting tongue.
Sweet. So bloody sweet. But he wanted more.
“Spencer,” she whispered, her hands cupping his jaw. Her eyes sparkled with a depth of emotion that stole his breath. That told him she felt the pull between them every bit as strongly as he did.
To hell with the tart. He tossed the remainder of it over his shoulder, and where it landed he did not give a damn. His hands went to her waist, hauling her to him so that she straddled his lap, skirts pooling around them. Her soft thighs and the irresistible heat from her sweet cunny branded him through his riding breeches.
Fuck, she was wet for him, soaking into the layers of fabric separating them. How grateful he was for the split in her drawers, for the heat and seduction of her. For her beautiful mouth, her floral scent, her curves, her husky voice saying his name, for her body moving over his.
“Kiss me,” he ordered, his palms seeking more of her, gliding over the small of her back, finding her shoulders. Luncheon had been pleasant, but this was what he hungered for most: her. His wife. Boadicea. The only woman capable of making him burn with outrage and hunger all at once.
“Boadicea,” he urged when she still denied him. She stroked his jaw instead of aligning her lips to his, caressing him with a wonder that touched him in a way he had no longer imagined possible. “Please.”
“Spencer.” She removed his hat, laying it on the blanket at his side, her fingers plunging into his hair. He forgot about wanting her mouth on his, forgot about desiring her surrender.
Instead, he took her in as if it were the first time he was seeing her: oval face, delicate brows, locks swept into a Grecian braid. Freckles on the bridge of her nose. High cheekbones. The most kissable mouth he had ever seen. The beauty mark that drove him to distraction. By God, she was more gorgeous than he had even comprehended before, and her beauty burned from within. She glowed. She was so much more than he had expected, more than he had ever dared imagine.
And she was his. How was it possible?
Hope burst open inside him, like a rose going into full bloom. Hope that he could one day resurrect the pieces of himself he had lost. That he could be the man Boadicea deserved. That his fits would cease, that he would never again wake trembling from the maws of a demonic nightmare, that he could be…her husband. A man she could love.
The enormity of his thoughts shook him. Could he ever be that man? He was afraid to look inside himself, to find the answer, to wonder whether or not, in spite of all he had endured, a part of him still believed love could exist after all. The enormity of it all threatened to cleave him in two.
So instead, he turned to what he did know: the need that sparked between them with an unquenchable flame. Desire, pleasure, was what he knew without doubt he could give her. Was all he could ever promise.
One of his hands sank into her hair, the other cupped the side of her face, and he looked at her, mesmerized. Not just by her beauty, which was undeniable, but by her. “Have you any idea how gorgeous you are?” he rasped, watching his fingers trail over her jaw, his thumb caress her cheekbone. She was warm, alive, more exquisite and responsive than he deserved.
More of everything than he deserved.
“So lovely.” He lowered his lips to her throat. Here, she tasted as sweet as she smelled. He trailed his mouth over the tense cord, nibbled the side of her neck where her pulse hammered furiously. He kissed below her ear. And then he found the secret spot that was so responsive to his touch, that silken hollow that smelled like lily of the valley and longed for his tongue. He licked.
She moaned his name. “Spencer.”
